


A Marathon of Memories

by Wheely_Jessi



Series: How Do I Love Thee? [7]
Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Charity fundraising, F/F, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, London Marathon, Old Age, Post-Canon, The Marathon Fic no-one asked for, Widowhood, Yes I've actually written fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 20:16:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10771656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wheely_Jessi/pseuds/Wheely_Jessi
Summary: It is the day of the 38th London Marathon, in 2018, and Delia Busby-Mount has both an important job to do and many memories to work through.





	1. Pace by Pace

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at a (prose) multi-chapter. Inspired by the London Marathon last Sunday, and the thought that it’s probably something Delia and Patsy would have done together.
> 
> Content Warning: As this is set more than fifty years post-canon, the subject matter will hopefully not be too unexpected and I have been quite obvious in the tags. However, if anyone wants me to add an archive warning for it, I will do.
> 
> There are four chapters – this first one is a sort of prologue surrounding Delia’s emotional state.
> 
> With huge thanks to @patiencebusby for the beta-read.

On Sunday 22nd April 2018, Delia Busby-Mount woke even earlier than usual. After fumbling around on her bedside table to switch on her reading lamp, she found her glasses, and, squinting in the half light at her digital alarm clock as she put them on, saw that it was 3am exactly. Satisfied, she threw back her half of the duvet, extricated the firm pillow that she kept between her knees at night, and made to sit up, wincing slightly from a combination of sleep-induced stiffness and arthritic aches.

As her feet touched the floor, she searched with her toes for her seemingly ever-elusive slippers – and then put them on, having eventually located them precisely where they had been left before she went to bed the previous evening. As always. She laughed at that, but felt the brief bubble of sound catch in her throat, and transform into a sigh. It was a good thing she had woken early, she decided, because the cab was booked for 5.30am but she would need as much time as possible to prepare for the events of the day ahead and to ensure it all went smoothly. Not in terms of clothes – her penchant for bright, patterned dresses was as prevalent at eighty-one as it had been at twenty-five, and there really was no better option for such sunny spring weather as was forecast – but with regards to just about everything else. She had to keep it together throughout proceedings; a quest in which time would be both her friend and foe. Nevertheless, she was determined to last the duration. She would take things as slowly as was feasible in the circumstances, as they had agreed.

Second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour, pace by pace.

She rose from the edge of the queen-size bed, and marvelled at the dent left in the mattress by her tense legs – ‘memory’ foam was quite the invention. Turning around, she righted her half of the duvet, before moving to the opposite side of the bed to perform the same manoeuvre as if by rote. She caught herself mid-smooth, and gasped, her hand frozen just above the surface of the linen. Feeling the tell-tale prick of tears at the corner of her eye, she swallowed, blinking furiously to prevent them from becoming anything more substantial. No. Not today. Today was for the runners and their selfless exertion; to indulge her emotions would seem _selfish_ by contrast. Besides, she had promised. She swallowed again, inwardly cursing the speed at which her feelings seemed to surface, unbidden, even four months later. _Only_ four months later? Grudgingly, she conceded that the latter form of the phrase was the more appropriate version.

Second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour, pace by pace.

Their advertising campaign to fill marathon slots might smack heavily of cliché, but it chimed with truth, and she was a fool to deny herself the same solace so readily offered to the families she (they) supported. All this she knew – and yet...

Yet nothing. Today was not for her. Today she was not ‘Delia’, but ‘Mrs Busby-Mount’, and Mrs Busby-Mount was all compassion, forever considering others above herself. Mrs Busby-Mount did not let private concerns impact on professional conduct; neither did she delay the execution of said professional conduct by dawdling over dressing. At that thought, she shook herself, and glanced across the bed to check the alarm clock. Staring at its red glare, she was relieved to find that, somehow, it was only 3.10am. Even so, she ought to get a move on.

Standing upright again, she walked around the bed to turn off her reading lamp, and made her way into the en suite bathroom, flipping the switch for the overhead light just outside the door as she did so. In the last few years, for ease of access, they had installed a walk-in shower. Delia pulled down the wall-mounted seat, grateful for its protection against slippage – all the more vital now that she could not simply call into the next room if she got into difficulty. Not wanting to dwell too long on the implications of that thought, she sat, wincing at the effort required to complete the movement. Shuffling backwards a little to settle her sciatica, she shucked off her nighty and threw it across the room to the laundry basket, raising her hand in triumph at the novelty of it hitting its intended target. Her aim had always been quite good, but age and dexterity did not appear to be happy companions. She missed wearing pyjamas, too, but had given them up out of respect for her joints; there came a point when emotional attachment was superseded by efficiency. Good gracious! She was becoming positively philosophical in her ancient wisdom. Such musings, she thought wryly, were the province not of Delia but of ‘Mrs Busby-Mount’, so ought to be nipped in the bud before they became too serious in their attempts to seed elsewhere than in her professional persona – and what better way to perform the nipping than through the refreshing deluge of cold water that seemed to pass for cleanliness these days?

Reaching up to the shower panel, she adjusted the temperature setting, before detaching the hose and pressing the ‘high pressure’ button. As the spray hit her legs, she found herself, for the first time in many years, feeling glad that she wasn’t running today. Keeping busy with other people’s practicalities offered ample opportunities to deflect their questions away from herself – and, well, it just wouldn’t be the same without...

No. No. No. Not now. No time.

She turned the hose on her face, spluttering at the sudden influx of water, but pleased with the success of her self-distraction. There. That was better. On to the matter at hand – namely, getting vaguely presentable prior to greeting the participants – a process she supposed ought to start, symbolically, with her feet. So she did, first taming the force of the torrent into a trickle to dart between her toes, and then methodically working up her body in an almost meditative manner, only pausing occasionally to balance the hose on her knee and squirt out some of the fancy liquid gel that had rendered soap nigh on obsolete. Then hair; not that there was half as much of it to deal with now. That done, she rinsed, relishing the sound as the suds swirled down the drain just below her seat; it was simple things like that that she used to refocus and reground herself, just as they taught in their sessions.

Or, rather, she ought to use them. Far more than she had been, anyway. Especially on days like today. Self-chastisement would take up more energy or time than she currently possessed, however, and she needed to think outward rather than inward. Not least because she was perched, naked, on a shower seat and would soon get cold. No, scratch that; she was already getting cold. Pull yourself together, Delia, she silently admonished – choosing to ignore the fact that she had nearly referred to herself as ‘Busby’. Was it really that long since she had last needed to give herself a pep talk? She supposed it must be. She also supposed that she should stop dithering and resolve the temperature situation.

Her eyes rested on the shower squeegee leaning against the opposite wall of the wet-room section. She didn’t think she had ever encountered a more ridiculously-named implement in all of her eighty-one years, but she wasn’t sure what else they might be called. At any rate, it did the job, herding errant puddles to the drain and thereby allowing her to exit the room safely, draped in a towel and flicking the light off as she left.

After basking in the warmth of the towel for a moment, she broke the spell of the early morning bedroom shadows by turning on another overhead light. Blinking slightly at the change, she opened the wardrobe, and found the hanger preserving her outfit. A dress, perfectly pressed, and positively polka-dotty. She smiled briefly, reaching to remove it from the hanger. Laying it out on the bed, she went to grab some knickers from the chest of drawers, cursing as she did so at the realisation that she would need a bra today. Upon reaching retirement, she had contentedly consigned that particular form of undergarment to go the same way as her career; out of her life, permitted to return only when absolutely necessary. This was partly due to feminist sensibilities, but mostly (if she was honest) resulted from a practical desire for comfort that had grown steadily stronger with age. Her fumbling fingers had never been conducive to the easy fastening of the clasps; a fact rendered even more starkly obvious by having no-one to help. Nevertheless, today was one of those rare absolute necessities, because she was too self-conscious even now to stand up and give a speech to supporters without feeling adequately attired both on top and underneath. Consequently, for easy wearing, she would have to go with a sports bra – which, she supposed, was at least apt for an event of an athletic nature.

Decision made, she dressed herself as quickly as her body would allow, stopping briefly for breath only when she had to stretch to get things over her head or onto her feet. Smoothing a hand over her dress, she turned around to gaze in the mirror that still hung opposite the bed, in spite of her plans to relocate it. Today, admittedly, it was serving its purpose. Passable. Shoes next, followed by a quick comb through of her (blissfully) short hair, and then she would do. A glance at the alarm clock told her it was 4.15am. Good – although a tiny voice whispered that she wished it were later. Less time alone to wait.

Conflicted, she wrestled with a stubborn strand of hair, venting all her misplaced vitriol on that one poor follicle before conceding defeat and marching purposely through to the kitchen. It was no use. She had over an hour to fill, and she owed it to herself (to them both) at least to acknowledge the significance of the day. She didn’t think she could bring herself to leave the flat without doing so. Once in the kitchen, she paused by the sink, leaning over to the window-box behind it to pick out a flower. The one she chose was tiny, blue, and beautiful. A solitary specimen, the first to surface of the clump of Forget-Me-Nots that reappeared, to their mutual delight, each year without fail. Poignantly perfect.

Nodding slightly for reassurance, Delia spun on her heel and returned to the bedroom. Standing at the side of the bed opposite to the one on which she had slept, she leant down and placed the precious flower in the middle of the pillow, holding her hand just above the surface as she had earlier that morning. Finally allowing herself a moment to remember, she felt a single tear sliding down the side of her cheek, and watched as it fell, splashing onto the cotton case. ‘ _Rwy'n gweld dy eisiau di_ – I miss you, Pats. I hope we do you proud today. And sorry for getting your sheets wet. I’ll change them as soon as I get home this evening, you have my word. In the meantime, keep the flat safe for me, won’t you, cariad?’

She lowered her head and kissed the spot where her tear had landed, revelling in the tiny trace of perfume that somehow still clung to the material. It might merely be her imagination, of course, but she didn’t care. It was comforting. Inhaling deeply, she sat up, having a slight sense of déjà-vu at being once again perched on the edge of their bed.

At that instant, the intercom buzzed, and she sprang to her feet in surprise. Heading out into the corridor, she checked the video screen, and was greeted by the footage of a waiting black cab. She knew she ought to have used their Addison Lee account, but she had wanted something less ostentatious and more readily associated with London. Pausing at the sideboard to collect her phone, keys and rucksack, she noticed her calendar notification: Sunday 22nd April. London Marathon. Cab booked 4.30. So the driver wasn’t early. She smiled, grateful to her past self for thinking more clearly about the state she would be in this morning and knowing she’d struggle to be on her own.

Small mercies, Deels, small mercies. As she shut the door of the flat behind her, the most beloved voice of all rang in her ears, and she knew at once that she could not just get through today but also use it to help others do the same.

Second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour, pace by pace.


	2. It's a Marathon, not a Sprint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marathon and charity-related plot developments, featuring Trixie, a sympathetic cabbie and a young woman called Emily. Mostly fluff but with feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had lots of thesis work this week, so this update is later than planned. Sorry.
> 
> Emily was inspired by conversations with my non-verbal friends about their frustrations, among other things. Hopefully I've done them justice.
> 
> Huge thanks to @CynicalRainbows and @patiencebusby for their feedback and support with what was an emotionally tricky chapter for me to write, despite the fluff.

When she reached the edge of the curb in front of the building, Delia paused for breath. She needed a moment to recover from the exhaustion brought on by taking the stairs two at a time instead of walking as sensibly as befitted a woman of her age. She really was trying to stop herself, but the oldest habits were the hardest to break, and she was sure she had started this particular one the very moment she first discovered that stairs and jumping made a pleasing pair. She supposed it was a blessing she’d not be running; such a devil-may-care decision would have undone months of training in a moment, and she could not have countenanced leaving her ankles in agony for the sake of an all too fleeting joy. Today, though, was different, and speed seemed of the essence.

She had wanted to be outside, to feel the crisp spring morning air (even though, technically, it was still too dark to discern the season). The time it would have taken to walk in the usual manner was just too long. It would seem patience was no longer her constant companion, she mused ruefully, before catching herself at the deeper resonance of that thought. She sighed. The early chill had done nothing to shake off her despondence – there was nothing else for it than to get in the taxi and attempt to make polite conversation.

As if on cue, the cabbie opened his door, raising a hand in greeting. ‘Morning, love!’ She nodded and gave a slight smile, stepping off the curb and reaching to open the passenger door with her free hand. ‘You all right with that?’ he asked, eyeing the balancing act she was performing with her rucksack and the rest dubiously. ‘Fine thanks,’ she responded a little more curtly, resisting the childish impulse to roll her eyes. She opened the door and slid in, deftly bringing the rucksack with her, and feeling rather smug as she caught the driver’s sheepish glance in the rear-view mirror. Taking pity, she deposited her phone on the next seat and grinned impishly, watching him visibly relax.

‘Greenwich, right? Not to pry, but you don’t look like you’ll be running the marathon in that dress, although your rucksack...’ He trailed off, embarrassed.

She tried to hide her amusement at his middle-aged awkwardness, as well as the immediate relief she felt at hearing the full extent of his East End accent; not quite the Cockney of the old days but close enough to bring comfort – or at least nostalgia. ‘I’m a nurse,’ she said simply, surprising herself by the use of the present tense, in spite of her reminiscence. ‘Always best to be prepared. Habit. And no, not Greenwich, change of plan. No time to tackle the traffic. Don’t suppose you could get me to Surrey Street? Just before the twenty-five mile marker?’

‘Course love.’ He nodded in acceptance of her explanation, and swung the cab out on to the road, clearly trying to mask the fact he was impressed. She could tell he had narrowly avoided mentioning her age instead of her dress in his earlier comment. ‘You not with the St John’s lot today then?’ he asked, apparently genuinely interested now.

‘No, though I have been on many occasions, and would love to pop over for old times’ sake – but a different duty calls.’

‘Have you lived here long? You sound more Celt than Chelsea.’ He caught his words and looked sheepish again.

She chuckled. ‘A fair few years. Moved from Pembroke to Poplar in the fifties, worked first as a nurse and then a midwife, and somehow wound up here.’ She said the last bit as a sort of joke but, if truth be told, she really wasn’t sure how they had come to be where they were. Occasional mumbles of ‘inheritance’, ‘retirement’ and ‘might as well’ had eventually morphed into something – several somethings – rather more concrete.

But this was not the time or place to think on whys and hows. The cabbie’s eyes lit up at the mention of her old stomping ground – she had been right in her assessment of his accent, just as he had with hers. Poplar was obviously a significant place for him too. She watched as he regarded her with renewed respect.  He was too tough to let on, though, only miniscule emotion flashing across his face before he saw her notice and closed up. Employing a deflective strategy with which she was all too familiar, he asked another question. ‘Why Surrey Street?’

She weighed up her possible options for a response. It would be so easy to say that she merely wished to cheer the runners and spur them on to conquer the final mile; it was at least half true, but she had never been fond of dishonesty and she still relished any opportunity to be open, even this long after decriminalisation. Head down for protection from potential scorn or outright homophobia, she took a chance. ‘The King’s student union building. They’re hosting a post-race event for people running in support of the Evelina Children’s Hospital; our charity works quite closely with families there, so they’ve invited me to speak. My wife would normally do it, but –’ She broke off, choked.

Allowing herself a glance upwards, she found him gazing at her intently. ‘Which charity?’ The gentle tone of his enquiry knocked her off-guard; she wasn’t sure what sort of response she had expected, but it certainly wasn’t that.

Clearing her throat, she couldn’t manage to keep the wobble out of her voice. ‘The Grace Mount Memorial Foundation, for childhood bereavement support.’

He nodded slowly, a slight smile on his lips. ‘I thought I recognised your surname when I got sent details of the fare last night. Your wife was Patience, wasn’t she?’ She gestured in agreement, too taken-aback to form the word ‘yes’. ‘You should be very proud of the help you offer – I lost my brother as a young’un and I’d’ve given anything to have other people who understood what I was going through. Shared struggles aren’t easier, but it softens the blow slightly. It’s amazing what compassion can do. Never apologise – your partnership has done so much for the world.’ His eyes were shining with evidence of the sincere feelings she had previously observed him trying to repress, and the tear creeping down her cheek suggested she was in much the same state.

They both laughed sheepishly. ‘It’s all right, love, I know you won’t want to talk any more now. I just wanted to reassure you that the silence will be a companionable one.’ She grinned in gratitude, and then dipped her head to grab her phone and tap out a text.

**Are you up yet, Trix ;)?**

She felt the buzz of a reply almost instantaneously.

_Of course, sweetie. Do you think I’d sneak a lie-in, today of all days? I mean really. It’s not as if we’ve been friends for over five decades..._

**Fairy snuff. Thanks, Trix <3**

_Just about at Emily’s to collect her and then we’ll drive over to meet you. Parking in the disabled bay at the very top of Surrey Street, as discussed, and then we’ll stake out cheering spots near Temple Pier. Babs will join us later. All sorted, minimal stress for you, sweetie. I promised. Even so, it’s far too early for puns and sentimental emojis. I’m not_ that _awake, Delia!_

The deadpan humour discernible even across text, Delia smiled, and tapped out what she hoped would be received as a cheekily contrite response.

**Sorry Trix.**

_I’ll cut you some slack just this once. You deserve it for your determination about today._

The abrupt change in tone shocked her into honesty.

**I don’t feel determined. I feel desperate.**

_I know, sweetie, but I’m here for you. Or at least I will be if you let me leave my phone for long enough to drive Emily over ;)_

**What was that you were saying about emojis? Seriously, though, drive safely please.**

_Yes’m. Hugs soon <3 ;)_

Shaking her head at Trixie’s silliness, Delia put her phone down and gazed out of the window. The sunrise was still a while away, but she could glimpse hints of lightness in the sky. Once upon a time, not that long ago (indeed, if she were honest, barely five months back), she might have supposed that to be a metaphor.

Not today, though, nor any of the others since... No. The poetry of life seemed submerged in a sludge through which she no longer possessed the energy to wade. For herself, at least. For others, her dragonfly demeanour and diligence were still in full swing. When duty called, she could jump into action in a moment, and she delighted in doing so – not least for the escape it afforded from engagement with her own emotions.

Speaking of duty, they must be nearly there now; the combination of texts to Trixie and the need to limit eye contact with the cabbie (however understanding he might be) had stopped her from concentrating on their whereabouts. She looked at her phone and the map on which she had quietly been tracking the progress of the cab’s little blue dot. Yes, they were about to turn into Surrey Street – if the cordon would let them.

After briefly explaining to the guard, via the cabbie, that she was meeting the people who were parked in the disabled bay (she could see Emily’s nifty Citroen Berlingo just ahead), they were allowed through and Delia permitted herself to breathe. Not long until she could relax among familiar faces. Firstly, though, she’d pay for the journey, leaving a generous tip as some semblance of thanks for the kindness and understanding. When the cab pulled to a stop, she jumped out to give him the fare. ‘No, love, this one’s on me,’ he said, putting a hand up to silence her protest before it began. ‘Consider it a donation-in-kind to the Foundation, in gratitude for all you do. I’m James, by the way.’

Sensing that he would brook no refusal, she nodded acquiescence. ‘Then at least take my business card, James, please. We have lots of projects you might be interested in – including a long-term support group for adults who never had the chance to work through their loss in childhood. You don’t have to commit to anything, of course, but I want you to know we’re there. Even just for companionable silence, if need be.’ She hoped her deliberate choice of phrasing would be enough to make him take the card. It was. Then, with a final grin, he was off, waving thanks to the guard as he navigated through the traffic cones – and Delia was left alone once more.

Yet not quite, because Trixie chose that second to open the front door of Emily’s car, rushing over to envelope Delia in the hugest of hugs. Delia silently allowed herself to be folded into her friend’s embrace, grateful for the simplicity of the solace she offered. When at last they broke apart, Trixie’s cardigan (clever clogs, why didn’t I think to bring one!?, she mused) was wet with Delia’s tears. She wiped them away reflexively, but Trixie stilled her hand. ‘Don’t worry, sweetie, they’ll dry. I’m just glad you feel able to emote at last – though you always were the best at that out of all of us anyway. Come on, let’s get Emily out of the car, she’s so excited for a _cwtch_ from her fellow Welshie!’

Before Trixie even finished her sentence, Delia had walked over to the vehicle and was opening the boot. ‘ _Helo, Em, cariad – s’mae_?’ Emily giggled in response and Delia could see her hand reaching for the joystick of her powered wheelchair, to form a response using her communication aid. Having met Emily as a distraught eleven-year-old who barely had the desire to indicate ‘yes’ or ‘no’, the sight of her being so eager to converse would never fail to thrill Delia, not least because she harboured a very special connection to the now twenty-six-year old’s ‘voice’. Emily had come to the Foundation for support following the death of her best friend, and then returned over the years with a regularity that would’ve alarmed anyone outside the disability community. It had certainly caused Delia consternation at first, much to her shame now – whereas Patsy of course had been nothing but sympathetic from the start.

If they had bonded over shared experience of multiple losses, though, Delia and Emily had soon become fast friends through their commonality of cultural heritage and the mutual necessity of moving away for the sake of London’s far superior medical facilities – albeit as practitioner and patient, respectively, and in vastly different eras. This connection had gone as far as Delia insisting that the computerised, unaccented tone of Emily’s Alternative Augmentative Communication equipment (AAC) was downright unacceptable. So much so, in fact, that when Emily had finally managed to convince her speech therapist to let her change it, Delia was first in line to provide the required vocabulary. Consequently, as Delia lowered the ramp to allow Emily to drive out and give her the promised _cwtch_ , she knew exactly how the young woman’s excited exclamations would sound.

Emily grinned at her as she reached the bottom of the ramp, pointedly switching off her chair to make sure they didn’t zoom away mid-hug – or, more accurately, mid-headlock, since that’s how her muscle spasms made her hug. When they had both had enough and eventually extricated themselves, Emily gripped her joystick again and began composing a greeting. After a few moments, Delia heard her own voice ask, ‘How are you coping? I’ve been so worried about you.’

She smiled sadly. ‘I’m okay, _cariad_.’ Emily and Trixie both looked at her, unconvinced. She sighed. ‘Fine – I’m not. But it’s been four months and she wouldn’t want me still to be moping around, would she? She’d just get on with it.’

Emily made a face in frustration and started to prepare another sentence. Eventually the sound came. ‘Every journey through bereavement is different, and dealing with grief is a marathon, not a sprint. That’s your advice; I’ve even said it in your voice so you have to accept it.’ She winked, and Delia couldn’t help laughing out loud – somehow a relief rather than the sacrilege she had supposed it to be.

She punched Emily gently on the shoulder. ‘Trust you to call me out on my hypocrisy so effectively, _cariad_. Come on then, let’s go and find a prime cheering spot – but even though we’re likely to be the first there, I’m going to need to stand on the back of your chair for height. You’re cool with that, aren’t you?’ Emily nodded, and they both erupted into giggles on seeing Trixie’s scandalised expression. Maybe today would be manageable after all.

Perhaps Patsy was right in insisting that it was a positive thing for her to do. As usual, then, she thought fondly.


	3. How We're Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Further marathon plot-based chapter. Delia, Trixie, Emily and Barbara support the runners for the Foundation. Delia and Emily give a joint talk at the end of the day.
> 
> Content Note: Frank discussion of the emotional impact of death and bereavement.
> 
> Title a reference to Bo Bruce’s song ‘How We’re Made’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I nearly didn't finish writing this chapter, let alone upload it, because over the weekend the subject matter got rather closer to home than I expected. But then I thought about how much the lovely members of this fandom have helped me through difficult times, and if I can give that back even just to one person then it'll be worth it.
> 
> So here it is, dedicated to the memory of Shane Hartop (25/04/1992 - 13/05/2017), another one of us taken far too soon. With infinite gratitude to @patiencebusby and @CynicalRainbows for their friendship and solidarity.

From her somewhat precarious perch on the back of Emily’s chair, Delia gazed down at her young friend, and found herself smiling (almost) unreservedly for the first time in, well, four months. The sight of Emily laughing at whatever Trixie had just whispered in her ear filled Delia with a peace she had not thought possible; whether or not it was permitted was another matter. Patsy would have said it was, of course, this being precisely the reason she had insisted that Delia come along to the marathon as usual, in spite of her misgivings – but then Patsy had always been a heartfelt hypocrite when it came to dealing with emotions. One rule (or rather one strict _set_ of rules) for her and another for everyone else.

Still, Delia had to admit that her beloved’s belligerence had been well-placed and well worth it. The day was a glorious one, and not merely in terms of the weather, that exceedingly British barometer of basic success. There was a sense of achievement and celebration that was literally tangible in the interactions between the runners and their supporters, and the team around the Grace Mount Memorial Foundation were no exception. Once they secured a suitable spot for Emily’s chair and waited for a few more of the faithfuls to arrive, Trixie had whipped out some of the Foundation’s signature t-shirts for people to slip over their other clothes. This was understandably more difficult to navigate for the three of them than for most of the others, because the mixture of Emily’s muscle spasms and Trixie and Delia’s ‘aged joints’ (as Trixie had called them, sighing loudly for extra dramatic effect) was not an entirely helpful one. However, a great deal of hilarity had ensued as a result of their efforts, culminating in a resounding cheer from everyone within a few paces – whether they knew them or not – when the attempt to free Emily’s head from the expanse of material finally met with success.

That had pretty much set the tone for the day, and Delia had felt quietly confident that Patsy would have approved, despite the fear of public mortification she had always harboured as a result of her traumatic childhood. Indeed, it had taken until the early nineties for her even to be able to refer to it as such, thanks (aptly) to the patience and persuasion of a private therapist. The said therapist had been paid with a small portion of the leftover inheritance from her father that she had adamantly squirreled away; her mind only changing when she witnessed the power of the transformations in people supported by the Foundation, and at a request from Delia that she would at least _try_ to allow herself the outlet she was so committed to providing for others. Long since unable to refuse her ‘darling Deels’ anything, Patsy had complied, and surprised them both by her willingness to open up and explore. As she had said herself, though, if she had a task she would stick with it until it was complete – and such maxims should apply as much to her personal life as they had to her professional one.

Practical Pats. All aspects of her personality were being held in mind today but, if there were a particular part of her wife’s spirit that Delia was aiming to channel, it was that – with a good measure of Compassionate Pats thrown in. These were qualities Delia herself possessed in abundance, of course. Nevertheless without Patsy’s physical presence to remind her of that by way of a list of adjectives long enough to be almost worthy of a sonnet, she had reverted to outside sources of security amid her inner turmoil. Sources such as Trixie, Emily and (later in the day, as promised) Barbara and Tom, who had appeared once their respective service and Sunday school duties had finished. Despite the myriad changes swirling around her, it would seem some circumstances never shifted, giving Delia a stable raft to float on for which she would be eternally (if not religiously) grateful. Perhaps their chip feast in the chapel at Nonnatus all those years back had not been quite as frowned upon as they had supposed at the time.

Thank goodness, because Tom and Babs were true friends, Delia thought, pulling herself out of the reverie she had somehow slipped into even with the cheering going on around them. She glanced down at Emily again, and found her young friend grinning at her, attempting (nowhere near successfully) to mask the concern on her face. Her fellow Welshie was clearly just as much of an open book as she was. She returned the smile in what was admittedly most likely an equally inadequate gesture of reassurance. ‘You okay, cariad?’

Emily inclined her head slightly, flicking her wrist over her joystick in order to offer a more detailed reply. A few moments later her computer provided a suitably Welsh, and witty, response. ‘ _Iawn, diolch_ – I’m fine, thanks, but I could ask the same of you...or I suppose you could ask yourself, eh? After all, this is your voice as well as mine.’

‘Now now, Emily Thomas, watch your words – if I weren’t almost certain to topple as I did so, I’d experiment with some moves from that newfangled parkour stuff you’re always going on about and leap down from this great height to teach you what happens when you get sassy and disrespect your elders. Your wheelchair doesn’t excuse you from some good old-fashioned discipline, I’ll have you know, young lady.’ Delia winked, and then grew pensive as she realised she was doing her best impression of Phyllis, who no doubt would have taken an equal shine to Emily, had they ever had the pleasure of meeting.

Her train of thought was swiftly interrupted by a peal of laughter, though, because Emily had decided to continue with her teasing and compose a further response. ‘You’d be more than welcome to explore that avenue of movement, but you couldn’t hurt a fly!’

Delia tried to look affronted, but she was secretly pleased – both that Emily had reached a point where she felt confident enough to use humour, and that the programming of her accent had been effective enough to evoke Delia’s somewhat sardonic tone of voice. ‘That is unfortunately a very accurate comment, cariad, especially on a day like this when I’m feeling almost too nervous even to give a speech at the after-race event. I’m so grateful you’ve agreed to do it with me!’

Emily grinned and made to type again. ‘Of course – us Welshies stick together.’ A pause as she added a few more words. ‘Actually, it’s 3pm, the first finishers will be back at Surrey Street now. We should probably think about heading to join them, if only to get set up...’

She looked questioningly at Delia, who nodded. ‘Yes, let’s make a move. Nudge Trix and Babs for me, won’t you?’ Emily did so, and Delia waved at her friends. ‘We’re off to prepare for our big moment; be bricks and clear a path for us?’ The two women nodded their assent and started yelling at people to get out of the way. Delia and Emily looked at each other and chuckled – from the surprise on their fellow spectators’ faces, one might have supposed that they were digging elbows into their ribs, but it seemed mostly because they did not expect such volume from two ‘little old ladies’ like them.

It had the desired effect, though, and soon they were zooming back towards Surrey Street. Delia had allowed Emily to persuade her to stay on the back of her chair, on the basis that their travel would be considerably quicker – and she had to admit that, sometimes, youth was wiser than age. Then, once at the Student Union building, they locked the door of the accessible toilet, to divest themselves of the t-shirts so painstakingly applied that morning and to sort out some semblance of a double-act presentation.

Upon eventually emerging back into the foyer, they found that a good half hour had passed. This was rather unsurprising given the fact that Emily had needed the loo and they had nearly collapsed on the floor in giggles mid-transfer, suddenly tickled by the awkwardness of their unusual pairing (arthritis and athetoid Cerebral Palsy were an accident waiting to happen, if they were truly honest) and the fact that all of their companions would have been horrified by the flagrant disregard for health and safety. They, of course, couldn’t care less, both being acutely aware that they only had one life – and that, as far as last moments went, there was arguably no place more novel to spend them than on the floor of an accessible toilet with questionable standards of hygiene. That latter point, though, had at least prompted Delia to send a silent apology to Patsy, knowing that any flippancy about germs was tantamount to sacrilege – and so they had somehow mustered the strength to stop laughing for long enough to get Emily back in her chair and to exit the toilet with something amounting to dignity.

Not the best start to a highly professional and poignant engagement, perhaps; and yet in some ways it couldn’t have been a better backdrop, given the depth and intensity of the subject up for discussion. Appropriate or not, Delia had found it such a release to laugh so loudly, the absurdity of the situation preventing her (them both) from feeling the customary wave of guilt that usually followed such positive expressions of emotion. And, for this, she was filled with pride – because giggles without guilt were the holy grail of journeys through grief. So, whilst they consciously composed themselves for the sake of propriety and compassion, inwardly they knew that they were perfectly entitled to be pleased at the hard-won (albeit hidden) happiness.

It was this quality that they would endeavour to imbue into their presentation. First, though, they required some sustenance. The search for it resulted in further fun and games, by way of Delia trying to feed Emily a vegetarian sausage roll without getting her fingers bitten off in the process – a quest made harder thanks to the fact that Emily would chuckle mid-chew and then nearly choke. They were both struck by the similarity of the situation to the one in which they had first met, when Patsy had almost drowned Emily whilst assisting her with a restorative mug of tea after her initial assessment session at the Foundation, and had called Delia in to clean her up and mitigate both their embarrassment. An anecdote for the talk, perhaps?

Emily having eventually demolished the sausage roll, Delia glanced at her phone and discovered that it was now approaching 5pm. Indeed, she had thought as much, since the rooms set aside for the event had been steadily filling with people. These were combined forces of the runners, their families, and practitioners, from the Evelina and its associated hospitals of Guy’s and St Thomas’ as well as the Foundation. It was for them that Delia and Emily would soon be summoning up the courage to communicate. Very soon, actually, since they could see one of the consultants, Dorothy Davis, rummaging around for a teaspoon to tap on the side of her glass as a call for silence.

She cleared her throat. ‘Hello everyone. I would like to say a sincere thank you for being here this afternoon, and of course for your efforts throughout the day. However, I know you won’t want to be hanging around post-race for any longer than you have to just to listen to “dispassionate doctors” like me –’ She paused for the warmth and humour behind her statement to register, before continuing with a bright smile. ‘So I’ll hand you over to Delia Busby-Mount without any further ado.’

Delia returned the smile and coughed slightly to clear her suddenly-constricted throat. ‘Thank you Dot – and thank you to everyone involved in today for your efforts, whether as a runner or spectator. Patsy asked me to pass on her frustration at not being with us today, as well as the fact that she left me with strict instructions for how to proceed! She wanted me to impress upon you that both the Foundation and the Hospital Trusts with which we work are incredibly grateful for the commitment you display, and the levels of engagement which consistently exceed expectations. To know that there are so many people behind the cause is a huge boost, not merely to the charity but to the bereaved children and young people (and the adults who were once bereaved children and young people) we support. Rather than me rambling on, though (as I’m sure you can all appreciate the difficulty of the topic for me today), I’d like to welcome the input of someone who has long been a participant in our projects, and is now not only one of our Youth Ambassadors but an extremely dear friend. As a heads up, you might recognise her voice.’ She glanced at Emily and grinned, in an effort to ease the tension radiating from the young woman’s body beside her. ‘All set, Em?’

Emily nodded and, taking a deep breath, hit the switch on her communication aid to start off her speech.

‘Hello, everyone, my name is Emily Thomas. I’m Welsh, I have Cerebral Palsy and no speech, which is why I’m talking to you via an electronic version of Delia’s voice. It’s also, in part, why I accessed the programmes at the Foundation, though it is not the only reason – because the first friend I lost, aged eleven, did not in fact have a disability. She went home from school on a Friday afternoon with a stomach ache and on the Monday morning I was told that her appendix had burst.

That said, I have now lost thirteen people and the majority of them also had disabilities, so that will be the substance of what I have to say today. When you’re little and people start to talk to you about being disabled, they mention things like physiotherapy and other physical interventions, as well as the fact that you’ll have to get used to people staring at you and asking questions they wouldn’t dream of putting to anyone without at disability. Questions like “Do you sleep in your wheelchair?”, “Could you go to university?” and, later, “Can you have sex?” What they don’t tell you about is the grief: about the day you’ll come to understand that eventually you’ll be one of only a handful of students from your special school still alive. Or about the fact that the kid you’re wheelchair-racing down the corridors with one week might go into hospital the next – and not come out. Or about how, due to the difficulty of navigating great distance with disabilities, most of your class reunions will coincide (of necessity) with yet another funeral. And they definitely don’t warn you that the rest of the world has absolutely no formula for dealing with such situations, because people can barely bear to broach the idea of one death, never mind many.

However, they also don’t tell you about the joy – the intense, incandescent joy of forming fast and firm friendships because you know that you have to make the most of every moment. Nor do they let you in on the relief to be found in being able to talk honestly and unashamedly about death. The ultimate human taboo gets a lot less scary when you have to face its effects head on – and, whilst no child should have to suffer loss, when it happens it is so much easier to comprehend if you can have a conversation with compassionate people who understand and are not afraid to listen.

That’s what the Foundation offers; a place where it is okay to talk, and where it is safe to confront the reality of death. This is why it is a privilege to be a Youth Ambassador – because I may not merely give back in gratitude for the support of have personally received, but I am able to talk to wider audiences about the importance of an integrated societal response to death. It’s how we’re made, fundamentally, and that is something it is vital to acknowledge if we are going to properly provide support for people dealing with loss at any stage of life.

Thank you for listening, and thank you to Delia and Patsy for everything, as always. I hope we’ve done you proud today, Pats.’

As Emily’s computer trailed off, Delia met her gaze, both of their eyes shining with tears. ‘ _Diolch, cariad_ ,’ she mouthed. Patsy would indeed be proud.


	4. Dash for your Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delia and Emily debrief about the day. Followed by a (VERY FLUFFY) flashback to 1982.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a rather turbulent week in terms of both personal and national circumstances, I've at last managed to finish the final chapter of this idiosyncratic headcanon of mine. I think it might just be the fluffiest thing I've ever written, which is not like me at all, but there are times when only fluff will do! With huge thanks for the encouragement and support - this fandom is just lovely and I feel very lucky to be a part of our community. Hopefully this ending does our favourite vintage lesbians justice.
> 
> Love and gratitude to @patiencebusby and @CynicalRainbows for being brilliant betas but, more importantly, fabulous friends. These soppy words can't convey how much you mean to me, but hopefully they'll give you an inkling.

It was 8pm before Delia and Emily had a chance to debrief properly. Following their talk, which was greeted with applause almost as thunderous as the sound of the runners’ feet from earlier in the day, they had been surrounded by similarly clamouring crowds requesting everything from photos and autographs to promises of further presentations. They were both considerably more enthused by the latter possibilities, not least because neither felt up to plastering smiles on their faces after the emotional investment it had taken to get through the afternoon. Banal small-talk wasn’t their forte at the best of times (and not simply because Emily needed advanced warning to programme her communication aid) but the particular circumstances of the day rendered it even less appealing than usual.

So they had gone through the required social niceties as quickly as possible – disarming everyone with the deft use of their shared Welsh lilt and discreetly-placed dimples – and then escaped with the convenient excuse of another toilet trip. Emily might have developed a camel-like quality over the years, especially during her schooldays as an essential response to the constant uncertainty about when the next ‘break’ opportunity would arise, but too much reliance on that was unhealthy, and she hadn’t been since three-ish. Therefore, at the earliest instant permitted by propriety, she had used the Makaton sign for ‘toilet’ to ask Delia for help – and then stifled a chuckle at her older friend’s attempt to hide her visible relief.

Once they had navigated the necessary manoeuvre again (with what seemed to them both to be far more finesse than their shaky struggle before the talk) they took a moment to breathe. Relishing the calm which had settled now that the majority of the marathon participants had shuffled off to their homes or hotel rooms for some much-needed and well-deserved rest, the two women reached silent consensus that they’d quite like to stay put for a while. For the remainder of this evening, at least, they had no more responsibilities to live up to or duties to fulfil; far from it, in fact, since Trixie had expressly informed them that she would personally prevent their participation in anything more strenuous than a film night. She had even forbidden their usual favourite, Scrabble, aware that the two wordaholics would need no extra strain on their blood pressure that night – however humorous and good-natured they would endeavour to be.

Consequently, as everyone else involved in the planning of the event had insisted on packing up, their taking comfort in companionable _cwtches_ in an accessible toilet cubicle was not only perfectly acceptable but expected. It also afforded yet more hilarity by evoking memories of the many conversations they had had in such places throughout their acquaintance. Similar situations were particularly prevalent during Emily’s turbulent teenage years, when her combined physical and emotional instability had meant it was safer for everyone involved if she had two people to assist with her personal care. Cue, of course, Patsy and Delia teaming up just as they had when she first met them – and enveloping her in so much confidence and compassion that she had begun to believe she possessed some of her own too. So much so, indeed, that it was mid-transfer with them (just shy of her twenty-fifth birthday) that she had been able to take her first independent steps after what seemed like almost countless years of trying. Their delight had been nearly delirious and she could not have asked for anyone better with whom to share that special moment. After all, it had been their support that had (both metaphorically and literally) carried her through her darkest days, by being close enough for comfort but distant enough to assuage (mostly) her guilt around offloading. Her Mam hadn’t even minded, because it was just too apt to be upset about.

Delia thought of that day now too, watching as Emily settled herself back into her chair, and resting a cautious hand on the armrest in case she should suddenly crumble and need to be caught. ‘ _Daliwch ati, cariad,_ ’ she whispered, not wanting to throw off her young friend’s concentration. ‘Keep going, you’re nearly there.’ Emily smiled at her in thanks, and Delia marvelled once again at the way her whole face lit up with joy. How far they had both (all) travelled together on this journey of life – a ramble that stretched back to the time when Emily’s grins, though always infectious, had been unable to mask the sadness behind her belligerent bravado. It was the first thing Delia had noticed about her, as she had with Patsy on _their_ first encounter, and she knew from just a shared glance that her ever-perceptive partner had picked up on it too. As they had wandered home that evening, in the early December of 2001, her characteristically calm and contemplative companion had babbled until she was almost breathless about ‘kindred spirits’ and ‘the chance to pour into her all the comfort I never got’ – and Delia had been tentatively thrilled that she had at last found someone else with whom she might open up.

‘Penny for them?’ The sound of her own voice as mediated by Emily’s AAC pulled Delia out of her reverie, and she found her fellow Welshie frowning slightly, though thoughtfully, at her silence.

‘I was just thinking about your first steps, and then somehow found my way back to the day we met.’

Emily smiled, relieved, and set about typing a few sentences. ‘You’ve never told me about why the Foundation was set up, you know. I mean, I’m well aware of _why_ , but why then? What finally convinced Patsy to do it, aside from your irresistibility, of course?’ She laughed at that last question and Delia swatted her playfully on the arm for her cheek.

‘Well,’ she began, ‘it was a long and arduous process, and involved the same trickery as was required for persuading Patience Elizabeth Mount to do anything at all...’

~~~

_On Saturday 26 th November 1982, Delia Busby woke extra early. She had a plan for this day that required completion before they both left for work, and ensuring its success involved catching her girlfriend prior to her morning routine of coffee and a deep cleansing of the kitchen. The only way to guarantee this was to wake before her, which was no easy task, even though her nightmares had receded into almost distant memories now that they were approaching their twentieth anniversary of living together in their own home. Today, however, it was necessary, and so Delia had primed herself by all possible means._

_Once she had prised her eyes open, she allowed herself to lie still and bask briefly in triumph, before gazing at the lean form of the still-slumbering woman beside her. Breathing in a shallow sigh of contentment so as not to disturb Patsy prematurely, Delia reflected that, even without her other motive, early rising was worth it just for the chance to witness this glorious goddess at rest. Powerless to prevent herself, though, she reached over and tucked a stray wisp of hair behind Patsy’s ear, pressing the lightest of kisses above it as she did so. Ever alert, Patsy took this as her (convenient) cue to stir, capturing Delia’s chin in a swiftly outstretched hand as she made to shrink away._

_‘I say, Nurse Busby, what on earth are you about, brazenly having your fill of me and then scuttling away like a skittish schoolgirl?’ She arched an eyebrow in mock outrage. ‘Such surreptitious dealings are my domain, I’ll have you know.’_

_Delia opened her mouth to protest, but was prevented by Patsy closing the already small gap between them to give her a firm but affectionate kiss. When she eventually broke away, she tried again, only to be silenced once more when Patsy laid a single finger against her lips. ‘_ Bore da, cariad _.’_ _Delia felt all her resolve beginning to melt. There was nothing quite as beautiful as when Patsy spoke Welsh, even if merely to wish her ‘good morning’, and (if not for the very special and important plan she had concocted) she would quite happily have abandoned all reason and made them both very late for their first shift. Had she been sensible, she thought ruefully, she would have taken Trixie and Barbara up on their offers of switching days – but then this plan really only needed a few spare minutes and they didn’t have the convenient cover-up of either a birthday or Christmas to provide an explanation to the rest of the hospital staff._

_As logic won out over lust, Delia managed to force her features into some semblance of strictness and steel herself against her girlfriend’s insinuations of impropriety. Or so she thought – because the sound that eventually escaped from her mouth was not so much a teacher’s voice as that of the petulant pupil she was attempting to scold. ‘Pats,’ she admonished, ashamed of the high-pitch but apparently unable to modify it, ‘That’s not fair. Please don’t tell me you were already awake. I worked so hard to be up before you, because we need to have a conversation, and now you’re distracting me by speaking Welsh. I know your game. You’re perfectly well aware of how that makes me feel and you want to use it as an avoidance tactic.’_

_She huffed exaggeratedly, and Patsy flashed her an impish grin, delighted in spite of herself that she had been caught out. ‘Sorry, Deels, you’re just too adorable when flustered – does it really still surprise you that much when I take initiative? If so, that’s a pretty poor reflection on how much I’ve grown...’ She trailed off, struck by the truth in that last sentence._

_Delia noticed her sudden silence and gripped her hand with tender strength. ‘Oh, Pats, you’ve grown so much!  I don’t think the novelty of lying here next to you will ever wear off (it certainly hasn’t yet) but that’s what makes it so special. Every day with you is a new adventure, even now.’ Patsy rolled her eyes, groaning audibly at the cliché, and Delia shushed her with gentle irritation. ‘It’s true! It is a privilege to watch you be the woman you were meant to be, and I’ll always bask in pride that you permit me to love you, whatever the world might say. Speaking of which, that brings me back to the conversation we need to have. You know how you promised me you’d let me have one wish if I agreed to put my name first in our double-barrelled surname when we’re_ eventually _allowed to get married?’ She paused to gauge her girlfriend’s reaction, expecting a sardonic snort, and she wasn’t disappointed._

 _‘You understand why that is, Deels, it has to be in alphabetical order. Otherwise it just sounds like an extremely poorly-crafted innuendo.’ Patsy looked resolutely ahead whilst speaking, as if daring Delia to argue, but the beginnings of a smile curved at the corners of her lips. ‘Although an innuendo,_ however _poorly-crafted, doesn’t seem such a bad idea at this precise moment...’_

 _Delia refused to be drawn in. ‘Have a little of your namesake virtue, Patience, and you might get a pleasant surprise. If you ever let me finish what I’m trying to say, that is.’ She smirked, revelling in the silence that resulted from the combined force of Patsy’s shock at being out-played and her ire at the use of her full name. ‘That’s better. Now, I have been perfectly clear that I don’t care_ at all _what our surname is, because the joy at being_ legally _allowed to share one (whenever that day arrives) will be far greater than any semantics. Besides, I think my Mam would be pleased to know you have such respect for the Busby name, were she still here to act as witness.’_

_Patsy laughed aloud at this point, cutting off Delia’s flow, which earned her a stern look. She attempted to offer a sufficiently contrite explanation. ‘Sorry, Deels, I won’t interrupt you again; you have my word. It’s just that I think this might be the first time Enid and I have ever been on the same side of a disagreement. What a shame she isn’t around to back me up.’ She grasped Delia’s hand, only too aware that the pain of familial loss remained raw for many years after the event._

_Delia grinned at her girlfriend’s almost-reflexive offer of physical protection. ‘You always were on the same side. You both wanted to make me happy. What you didn’t realise is that I could only do that for myself – but that you both could (and did, and do) help_ enormously _. And that’s what we’re talking about now. I need your help to make_ you _happy. You’re turning fifty soon, and I want us to do something to mark that. Together. Not just the usual daytrip and tea (though of course we’ll do that too, I wouldn’t miss that for anything) but something significant, like running the London Marathon next spring.’ She paused to catch her breath, realising that she’d rushed to get the suggestion out through nerves, and glanced anxiously at Patsy._

_Patsy returned her gaze evenly. ‘Run a marathon? Me? I don’t possess nearly enough stamina.’_

_Delia bit her tongue to stop her instinctive giggle at the undertones of Patsy’s objection, but permitted herself a brief joke. ‘Oh, I’d beg to differ...seriously, though,_ cariad _, it’s what you do every day on an emotional level. I think it’d be good for you to transfer that into physical exertion.’_

_Patsy nodded, conceding the sense in this statement. ‘I suppose it’d be a useful outlet; and it’d give us another shared hobby afterwards. Goodness knows my lungs need whipping into shape, at any rate, because they’re still shoddy even without cigarettes. No “I told you so”, Deels, or you’ll goad me into starting up again,’ she added as an afterthought._

_Delia just smiled. ‘So you’d fancy it, then?’_

_‘Of course – I fancy everything associated with you. And it has the convenient bonus of being a charity event, which gives us the perfect excuse to do it together without raising eyebrows, because we’ll be raising_ money _. Although I wish we didn’t have to think like that any more –’ she broke off, wistfully._

_‘– but while we do, I’m grateful for the cover.’ Delia said, gently finishing Patsy’s sentence, hiding in the reassurance her relief that the idea had gone down well._

_Patsy didn’t respond immediately, seemingly lost in thought, and when she spoke again it was to highlight another concern – but not one Delia had ever anticipated. ‘Which charity, though? There are so many! How can I be expected to choose?’_

_‘You don’t have to choose. This is the exciting part of the suggestion, your real present – I was thinking we might set up our own. With the last bit of your father’s inheritance you’ve felt so awkward about still having but wanted to save for something worthwhile.’ When Patsy said nothing, but sat looking at her incredulously, Delia continued. ‘A charity, Pats. For you – or rather for children like you, who need support with loss and grief. You’ve said for years you want to keep making a difference after you retire, and this is one way to do it.’_

_Patsy nodded, realisation finally dawning, but she still couldn’t quite articulate the tumult of thoughts and emotions in her head and heart. So she asked a third question. ‘I wouldn’t have to name it after me, would I?’_

_Delia shook her head, amused by the masking of confusion with modesty. ‘No, Pats. I actually thought you’d probably like to name it after Gracie.’_

_The utterance of her sister’s name was enough to break Patsy’s quiet stillness, and she threw her arms around her girlfriend as she exclaimed, ‘Delia Busby, you are a marvel. I shall indeed run the London Marathon with you next year, and as many after that as I can._ Caru ti, cariad _.’ And, with that small snippet of Welsh, all of Delia’s principles about making work on time simply disappeared._


End file.
